In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well…

Flying

slowly, we drifted downhill… late in the evening… should have been wearing something warmer, it’s cold… down there in the valley, where we first met, it must be warmer, like when we first met… don’t want to go back… let’s keep drifting downhill, and tell me about your dreams… she told me only this afternoon, that dreams are the purest form of expression… tell me, and I’ll tell you another… I’ll tell you that I’ve realized how to keep afloat mid-air… you just have to forget the gravity of life, the gravity of truth, the gravity of death… it is not the forgetting that you must focus on though, you must have a light heart… a heart that can take the sweetest flights of fantasy… so light that even the softest gust of wind lifts your spirit… I could show you right now, but my heart is heavy, as we drift downhill… down to the valley, where we live, you and me… tell me about your dreams, dreams that have wings… my heart will learn for yours… and together we’ll fly… we’ll fly up to the grasslands… up there… where every breath is beautiful… we’ll not feel the cold together, you and me… we’ll be warm…

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5 thoughts on “Flying”

This is visceral & lucid storytelling. I can feel the cold air. And scent of the described surroundings.

I love to tell dreams. My grandmother was an animist. (From near the Baltic from an ancient pre-Christian tradition. Horse breeder/trader family German & Polish). And lol I have to write ‘was’ even though no belief in past present future w/ that. You just journey to the other World. So she/we believe that once you pass on you can tell your loved ones when they are ill & give them remedies or warnings etc. through our dreams. She experienced this from a cousin & my grandfather/her husband. And I experienced it from her – astonishingly – over something *very* important.

So at breakfast or throughout the day we *always* told our dreams in my family. (On the German side. I am 100% Lebanese & 100% German – to confound people…). In great detail. And discussed them quite seriously w/ solemnity. Or laughed when called for. As I’m sure you know there is nothing *funnier* than certain dreams.

I thought *everyone* did this. It turns out in America – outside of my Indigenous friends here – this is not considered ordinary conversational material & hence dreams are not analysed in detail for direction or solace or how to conduct the day or other important matters like what to eat and/or drink… lol. Nor was everyone having the ‘tell me when you get to the other World via a dream’ conversation w/ their elderly grandparent as I had w/ mine.

I have heard more than one American (not-Indigenous) say hearing people tell their dreams is ‘boring’.

The Dadaists/Surrealists were very much involved w/ observing & listening to their dreams. (Probably not without relevance that Max Ernst was German – as were other founders of that movement). One only has to look at M.Oppenheim’s fur lined teacup assemblage sculpture to understand the impact of valuing dreams.(Possibly my favourite work of art/sculpture ever & possibly even better is the story of how she came up w/ the concept).

After awhile I really missed having my grandmother or mother or brother to tell my dreams to in the mornings. (The one that excelled at this).

So this post means a lot to me. Your writing is very resonant… filmic. Inshaallah it will be a blast reading more of your words!

Every place in every moment is potent with a zillion stories, pictures, poems, music of life and death. I am trying to find my way across the unfathomable ocean of experience and sometimes, I dive into the depths for sunken treasures and dark mysteries. I write. I take pictures. I make music.